Conversations
by MarionArnold
Summary: A nun is captured on Ragnar's Western Shores raid towards the end of Season 2. These are the conversations between that nun and the Vikings during the time that she is forced to spend with them. Goes beyond the Kattegat conclusion where S3 might (or might not) go.
1. Chapter 1

So I caught up with Vikings lately and love the show – especially Floki. As per my norm I have inserted an OFC into the universe to explore different interactions with the characters.

Conversation 1

"The gold! Where is the gold?"

The savage tone echoed through the chapel, a harsh contrast to the soft sunlight reflecting off the alabaster stone and the quilted hangings moving gently with the soft breeze entering from the open doors but in keeping with the pool of blood where the last of the convent's male servants had been thrown in a heap and bled his last. Unsatisfied with the lack of an immediate answer Rollo stalked from the ruins of the altar, grabbed the stature of Mary and threw it to the ground, causing noises of dismay from the gathered women. One of the younger nuns fell to the ground in a faint and the Mother Superior flinched.

Ragnar approached the Mother Superior, Torstein tightening his grip on her arm to prevent her backing away. "Where is the gold Priestess?" he asked in a deceptively gentler tone.

"I do not know," replied the Mother Superior with the remaining shreds of her dignity. She had seen many winters and her face was lined with her experience but she was obviously struggling with fear in the face of the invaders and her voice quavered slightly.

Ragnar shook his head.

Rollo snatched at one of the other nuns, pulling her hard against him and placing his knife against her throat. Her whimpers morphed into gurgles as he drew it across her skin, her blood turning her starched collar a bright red, her body landing limply as he discarded her.

The Mother Superior gave a cry of dismay and her flock screamed, some of them so overcome with fear that they tried to break for the door and were brutally pushed back to the ground by the surrounding Vikings.

Ragnar frowned at his brother and turned back to the Mother Superior. "Where. Is. The. Gold?" he asked deliberately. "Or does my brother have to ask another one of your women?" he waved a hand.

Rollo grinned and yanked another of the nuns into his arms.

"She doesn't know," said another voice.

Ragnar straightened, turning to the back of the church; there was a rustle amongst the prisoners and a small nun stepped out of the press of the village women and children. Her habit was old and fresh smears of blood were bright against the dirt stained fabric and her head was covered closely by a white wimple and a black veil. Several of the women clutched at her, trying to pull her back but she smiled at them and put their hands aside.

"Sister Marion – no," ordered Mother Superior.

"They are monsters Mother," replied the nun in contemptuous tones. "They will not leave us alive without the gold."

"The gold belongs to God," announced the older nun.

"So do we," replied Sister Marion. "And we are worth more to Him than gold."

The Mother opened her mouth again but Torstein reacted to a baleful glance from Ragnar by covering her mouth with a dirty and bloody hand. Ragnar grinned and sauntered his way down to stand in front of the nun, the other women quailing backwards and leaving her in complete isolation. She stood firm, lifting her chin and glaring at him with dark brown eyes framed by very long lashes.

"What does the woman say Ragnar?" demanded King Horik in the Viking tongue.

The burst of satisfaction at seeing a slight jump from the nun was buried in annoyance at his name being announced and Ragnar's face twitched slightly. He continued in silence around behind the nun, looking over the top of her head to reply to his king. "She says that she knows where the gold is."

"Well get her to tell us where it is," ordered Horik.

Ragnar's face twitched again, but he leaned in until his lips were millimetres away from where her ear was hidden by her wimple. "Where is the gold _Sister_ _Marion_?" he purred.

"Safe," she replied shortly, keeping her eyes forward and only a slight shiver betraying her apprehension. Her nostrils flared slightly in reaction to the scent of blood around him. "Where you will not find it were you to search for a whole week."

"She says we will not find it were we to search for a week," translated Ragnar with some appreciation, lifting his eyes to Horik.

"We don't have a week," said Lagertha even as Horik frowned in annoyance. "We must return to the camp tonight." Bjorn and Erlendur had been left in charge of the camp – fitting to their position as sons of the king and earl but a new responsibility that didn't bear any severe testing.

"What a shame that we don't have your Priest with us" remarked Floki in his teasing lilt. "He would know where to look."

Ragnar flicked Floki a reproving glance, which was met with a giggle and grin, and moved around to stand in front of her, tipping his head. "You will tell us where the gold is?" his tone suggesting the threat was almost as an invitation.

Her eyes came up to him. "I will," she nodded. "On one condition."

"The little woman has a condition," translated Ragnar and there was laughter from the amassed Vikings. He switched languages to address her again "why should we be concerned with your conditions?"

"Because you want the gold," she replied stiffly. "And I am the only one that can give it to you."

"We could _make_ you give it to us," he suggested silkily. "Perhaps we could kill one of your sisters?"

Her eyes snapped to where Rollo was still holding one of the nuns, his blade pressed hard against her throat, apparently unaware of the exact content of the discussion but watching for any signal. "You hurt one more of my sisters and I will go to the grave before I tell you a thing."

"But you just said that your sisters' lives are more important than gold," he protested with a mocking grin.

She glared at him. "My sisters for the gold. _All _of my sisters and children for the gold. That is my condition."

"Can you hold to it though?" asked Ragnar, studying her. "If one by one your sisters fell to the ground with their throats cut out?"

Her face paled but her voice was firm. "Then they will die as martyrs and be welcomed by the Lord God himself through the gates of heaven. A joyous death for any Bride of Christ." She paused. "And you will miss the tide and still have no gold."

Ragnar leaned forward until his blood spattered forehead was pressed against hers, his eyes less than a centimetre from hers. The convent had been unexpected, found only because they had followed the fleeing villages from their poor waterside shacks in search of better pickings than nets, baskets and driftwood. The gates had not been able to withstand the Vikings' axe barrage but the villagers had fought hard, if with little skill, with a resilience that he hadn't expected. Within her eyes he saw the same resilience and he stepped back, his smile of genuine amusement. "I believe you," he nodded. He turned back to his fellows. "She will show us the gold if we release the women and children."

"Earl Ragnar expects us to be dictated terms by a flock of women wearing sacks?" said Floki slyly.

"What honour is there in killing them?" demanded Lagertha. She walked forward, looking at the woman that even she overtopped in height although the habit made it impossible to compare physiques. "She has a stout heart this little woman," she said. "I agree to her condition."

"If we release the nuns they will tell Ecbert what has happened," pointed out Floki, looking to Horik.

"If we kill them then King Ecbert is bound to find out," refuted Lagertha. "And he will be unlikely to want to talk terms with us."

"And what does Earl Ragnar say?" asked Floki after a pause of looking at Horik, stepping forward and waving a hand.

Ragnar looked at Horik, tipping his head slightly. "I say that we are here for gold and for honour. Not to murder a flock of harmless women and children."

Rollo saw the consent on Horik's face and spat to the side, pushing the nun back to her sisters. Torstein stepped back from the Mother Superior and she moved to kneel at the side of the fallen nun.

"We agree to your terms Sister Marion," announced Ragnar, turning back to her. "Show us the gold."

Marion's eyes closed briefly and her lips moved soundlessly for a couple of seconds. "I will show your leader," she said, looking uncertainly between Floki and Lagertha, before turning back to Ragnar. "The rest of you must wait at the gates."

"What is she saying?" asked Floki.

"She says that she will take our leader to the gold," said Ragnar with a grin, although his eyes were hard as he flicked a glance to Lagertha. "She says she will take _Floki_ to the gold."

"Floki?" repeated Lagertha with genuine uncertainty. "She believes _Floki_ is our leader?"

"And the rest of us must wait at the gates," finished Ragnar still enjoying the moment.

"This Priestess is making a mockery of us," blinked Floki – first to recover from the shock.

"Are you afraid of the little woman Floki?" asked Torstein with a grin.

"I mistrust this Priestess Torstein," said Floki with narrowed eyes. "But I will play her game," he said and walked towards her.

Ragnar turned back to the nun and gestured flamboyantly towards the door. She looked apprehensively at Floki, his impish smile distorted by the smeared kohl on his face, and took a couple of steps in that direction. She paused and looked up to the altar to where the Mother Superior stood with the rest of the nuns. "Forgive me Mother?"

"I cannot," the woman replied sadly. "I will pray to Mother Mary to intercede for you."

Ragnar saw the pain in her face for an instant then she ducked her head and turned away, her habit rustling and the beads around her waist clicking as she walked through the Vikings out into the courtyard without a further glance. Floki directed a narrowed glance at Ragnar for a moment but followed, Lagertha and Horik behind him. Ragnar jerked his head and Torstein nodded, leading the rest of the Vikings out to the gate, and watched the village women and children run to the altar. He stared at the gathered women long enough to make them feel uncomfortable and then walked outside, hearing the door close and latch behind him. He grinned to himself; the wood was old and no match for the Vikings axes.

The nun exited the courtyard and turned parallel to the external wall of the compound, her short sharp steps contrasted by the ranging strides of Floki at her right shoulder with his axe swinging with his pace, his eyes moving from side to side looking for a trap. She stopped in front of a wooden building, its large doors held closed by the body of one of the convent's grooms. She swallowed and crossed herself before stepping forward and taking the man under the arms, attempted to drag him out of the way. Floki snorted in amusement as her heaves were virtually ineffectual and it was Rollo who stepped forward with a curse and pushed her away, moving the body without any difficulty.

Marion paused, staring at the group. "You must go and wait by the gate."

Ragar's brows lifted. "But how will you communicate with our King?" he asked. "He does not speak your language."

She hesitated, her face displaying an internal conflict for several seconds. She came to a decision and looked at him directly, nodding. "Well the others – they should go."

Ragnar pulled a face. "These two – they are important persons." He offered a smile and a shrug. "And if they do not see the gold, they might fight about whether their share is fair."

She looked at him with acute suspicion but he looked back at her with wide eyes, the blue heightened by the angle of the light. "And him?" she pointed at Rollo.

Ragnar shrugged. "He is my brother."

Ragnar looked at her, waiting with some expectation, and smiled slightly with a mocking tilt. She ducked her head after a few moments, yielding. She stepped forward to the door and with only a small hesitation, dragged the door open.

Ragnar braced himself and he saw Floki lift his axe – but nothing happened and the nun took a step into the barn. Floki's hand reached out and grabbed her arm and she halted, looking up at him in query.

"We should not go into there," said Floki, narrowing his eyes to try and see into what was a dim interior despite the morning sun at their shoulders.

"Are you afraid Floki?" asked Ragnar in amusement.

"This Priestess is planning something," replied Floki, turning to look at King Horik. "I can feel it."

"What can she do?" shrugged Rollo. "She is one and we are many."

"I do not know," answered Floki, still holding the nun by the arm.

"What is it?" asked Marion, looking at Ragnar.

"Our king thinks you are trying to set a trap for us," he explained, watching her keenly.

"And what use would that be?" she asked in a matter of fact tone. "You would kill me and then go and kill my sisters and the villagers."

"And we will," he warned.

"The gold is inside," she assured him. "It will become lighter once we are inside, your eyes will adjust."

"What does she say Ragnar?" asked Floki.

"She tells you not to be afraid of the dark," grinned Ragnar.

Floki wrinkled his nose and hissed, shoving the nun forward and striding in after her. Horik followed with Rollo on his heels. Lagertha gave Ragnar an admonishing look and then stepped in ahead of him.

The barn was dark and he blinked in an attempt to heighten his vision; Lagertha's hair was a dull glow and Horik's and Rollo's figures were only slightly indistinct but he could only vaguely make out the signs of Floki's tall figure a few metres ahead of him. He couldn't see the nun at all and he blinked a few more times, his grip tightening on his sword.

"It's in here," he heard the nun say and then there was a scraping sound as some type of door opened.

He caught the movement out of the side of his eye. "Shields!" he yelled, more out of instinct that any real awareness of trouble, lifting his to protect his torso. The battle hardened Viking warriors responded without thought. Rollo, Horik and Lagertha lifted their shields but Floki had no shield, and instead dropped to the ground.

There was an unholy scream, a whoosh as the stallion's hooves punched through where Floki's head had been and then a thud as they landed on the ground perilously near Floki's legs. He scooted backwards as the stallion spun and reared, hate and wildness in its eye, and then there was another thud as Rollo's axe landed in the animal's flesh. The horse screamed again, this time more in pain than rage, aborting its strike on Floki to retaliate against the new threat. Rollo thrust out his shield and the horse's teeth locked around it, dragging Rollo forward on skidding feet and then throwing his sideways into the barn wall. Horik slashed with his sword and the horse screamed again, his back feet dropping from underneath him. Rollo stepped forward again with a downward blow of his axe and the horse screamed in agony as the axe bit in deep. Rollo lashed out again and then once more and the horse hit the ground, its laboured breath the only sound in the barn.

"Floki," said Horik. "Are you alright?"

Floki looked at the heaving mass of stallion in front of him and then up at Horik, taking his hand and rising to his feet. He looked at the horse again and then back to Horik, his eyes wide. "The Priestess tried to kill me."

Rollo laughed, clapping the taller man on the shoulder. "It was the horse that tried to kill you Floki."

Floki shook his head, looking into the stall where the nun was pressed into the corner staring at the dying stallion with wide eyes. He shook his head. "It was her."

"Rollo," said Horik loudly. "Go. Kill all of them except their leader. Bring her here."

Rollo grinned and slapped his axe against his shield, striding out of the barn.

Ragnar walked forward, giving Floki a glance and receiving only a flick of a glance in response and squatted in front of the nun. He heard Lagertha mutter a prayer and slit the horse's throat; the nun shuddered and her eyes turned up to him. "You should not have done that," he said slightly sadly. "He will kill them all now."

"Who is he?" she asked, glancing at Horik.

"He is our King," he replied and she looked more sharply at him.

"But…." She blinked. "Who are you?"

"I am Earl Ragnar," he replied and watched the flicker of recognition in her eyes with a little pride. "And this shieldmaiden is Earl Ingstad."

"And him?" she directed her gaze to Floki.

"He is our boat builder," replied Ragnar with a grin.

"Hell," she whispered with a resigned sigh.

"Where is the gold?" he asked softly.

She heaved another sigh and lifted her chin in the direction of the trough. "In there. There is a false bottom."

Ragnar snorted softly and stood, walking over to the trough.

"Ragnar," said Lagertha in a warning tone.

Ragnar lifted a brow towards her and looked over his other shoulder at the nun. She was still, her whole posture submissive, defeated. Ragnar grinned and reached into the trough. The bottom came up with only a little effort and even in the dim light he saw the dull golden glow of the gold. He reached down and pulled out a candelabrum, lifting it above his head. Lagertha smiled and stepped forward, passing him a wooden pail for filling.

"Rollo?" Horik's voice was puzzled. "Where is the woman?"

Rollo gave a twisted smile. "They're gone."

"What?" demanded Horik. "How can they be gone?"

Ragnar turned back to face the nun with some surprise, watching her close her eyes and murmur a silent prayer.

"The chapel is empty. There is not a sign of any of them," Rollo was explaining.

"Where are they?" asked Ragnar softly from his position.

The nun opened her eyes and looked up to him. "Safe," she replied. "Where you won't find them if you searched for a week."

Ragnar grinned in appreciation, meeting Lagertha's eyes briefly before she walked from the barn with a golden filled pail with a smile.

Rollo strode forward and grabbed at the nun, lifting her off her feet and pressed her against the wall, his axe blade to her throat. She trembled but stared into his eyes with the same resilience that she had shown to Ragnar.

"No," said Horik with a glance at Ragnar. "Bring her."

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

So….?


	2. Chapter 2

Thankyou so much for you beautiful people who left me a review on the first chapter – it really makes my day when I get a positive review and helps me with the rest of the fic. Thankyou also to those who have hit that follow button, letting me know you are interested in this. I didn't intend for this Conversation to take so long to get you, I will try to get the others out on a quicker schedule.

A warning that you will get the impression that Marion isn't treated nicely at the end of this chapter.

Conversation 2 

_Holy Mary, Mother of God, watch over me, give me the strength to face the future._

Marion sighed and opened her eyes, staring at her toes. She had faith in Mother Mary but she knew she needed direct divine intervention to get herself out of this situation and she doubted the good Lord would stir himself for such an unworthy soul as her. Pride was a deadly sin and, as Mother Superior had predicted, it was pride that had finally been her undoing.

The dawn had been beautiful, pink and red hues blanketing the horizon and painting the mist which hugged the ground, a gentle breeze wafting her skirts and goospimpling her skin with its cool touch. There had been a special sort of silence over the fields, that singular moment in time when Creation drew breath before embarking on the day and the tinkle of the goats' bells around her complemented the silence rather than disturbed it. It had always been her favourite time of the day, when the day still held promise of things to happen beyond the drudgery of reality.

The screams had been faint, it had taken a while for them to intrude on her consciousness and she had frowned, though more in confusion than any real fear. The first thought, that there had been a shipwreck, was discounted due to the mildness of the previous night and morning. The second thought, that there had been an accident with livestock, still seemed doubtful in her mind but she had started walking towards where the pathway from the village crested the rise at the edge of the convent lands, the goats trailing behind her. The first sight of Rhett running up the sand, his normally placid face distorted in fear and babbling about giant strangers arriving on ships from the coast carrying axes and swords had shaken her to the core.

She had sent Sister Githa inside to inform Mother Superior, directed Rhett to return to help his family and ran, goats still following, to the barn. She found Byram in the process of mucking out the stalls and he ran with her to the chapel, threading through the confused nuns and the first of the villagers, ignoring those who called out to her. She had barely offered an obeisance to the altar as she ran towards it, Byram taking a moment to realise what she was trying to do before laying his own weather beaten hands next to hers and heaving. The heavy timber piece though had stood there longer than both of their years added together and it didn't even pretend that they had a chance of moving it. After several moments they both subsided, defeated.

"What now Sister Marion?" had whispered Byram, his face full of fear.

_Guide me Mother Mary_, she had thought. "Go," she had said and then crawled underneath the altar, her back grazing the cross bar as she had pulled the first trapdoor up. The second trapdoor had taken longer to pull and she had been panting in exertion by the time she had pulled it. "Go," she had repeated as she came back. "Prepare the way."

He had wanted to; she had seen that in his face. But he was a brave lad and he had protested. "How will you follow?"

"The Lord will provide," she had smiled and cupped his face briefly. _And the Lord had provided_ she thought with a wry smile _in the form of burly Vikings who had pushed the altar away so that the nuns could escape down the tunnel._

_They were safe_; the thought gave her first some comfort and then some hope. _She was wrong to despair_ and she straightened slightly, pushing back at the fear which had driven the warmth from the core of her being. The Lord _would_ provide, but she had to be ready to receive what assistance He sent her way and she lifted her gaze to assess her situation.

The ship was quiet, quieter than she thought it should have been given the amount of gold, corn and jugs of mead piled in the bow. The majority of men were rowing silently, exchanging only short phrases in a language that she couldn't understand, the sail only fluttering slightly in the gentle breeze of the middle of the day. Most she didn't recognise from the attack and she gave them a cursory glance only. The man who had held Mother Superior, _Torstein_, was on one of the middle benches, his muscles clenching with each stroke. His face held a suggestion of levity about it; while he had been all business at the convent and not at all dismayed at the thought of killing, she wondered perhaps if he was a bit of a joker in day to day life. Across the aisle from him sat the brother who had so callously – and with so little burden to his soul – killed Sister Aubreda, his own muscles clenching in time with each stroke and skin glistening from the seawater and sweat. His face was broody, his intense gaze fixed on her and she supressed a shiver, turning away. Of the vows she had given, obedience had always been the hardest for her to follow and Mother Superior, being a wise woman had allowed her enough freedom outside of the convent walls so that the struggle to maintain her vow had never been too much for her to overcome. From that experience she had seen a lot more than the sequestered nuns. She had seen what men could do to women, what weapons they had in their arsenal, and she knew what had happened to the monks at Lindisfarne. In his gaze she could see that horror.

King Horik was the least foreign looking to her, his hair and beard similar to that of some of the villagers, only his weaponry alien to her eye. His face was almost kindly as he looked contemplatively at the shoreline they were passing but she had seen the anger on his face when he had realised that he had been deceived and she knew that he would be no friend to her. She bit back again at the fear that tried to surge through her; he held a rope in his hand, the other end of which was looped around her neck – she was his slave.

The shieldmaiden, _Lagertha_, sat on a stool at the bow of the boat, fiddling idly with some gold chains amongst the loot stolen from the chapel. She looked fierce, the braids which Marion thought were probably more for practical than aesthetic reasons taking away any softening effect that the natural curls would have created, her leather tunic and leggings simultaneously showing off her feminine figure and taking away any hint of softness. It was her eyes though that Marion looked at, they were soft and while she wasn't sure whether the shieldmaiden could or would defend her, she didn't think any harm would come from her.

Floki _the_ _boat builder_, and she winced inwardly at the thought, was also at the bow of the boat but he wasn't looking out over the water. His gaze was fixed on _him_, Earl Ragnar, and she was confused, unable to determine what it was in his eyes, whether it was suspicion, hatred or perhaps some sense of glee. His eyes suddenly snapped up and caught her looking at him; his eyes narrowed until almost obscured by the dark makeup he wore around them and she looked away quickly. She had no idea how to even make an assessment of him. His mocking giggle floated down to her and she felt herself flush slightly.

"What did your mother deny you forgiveness for?"

The question made her start and she looked up to where Ragnar was contemplating her. He was looking relaxed, leaning against the mast and chewing on something. His blue eyes almost glowed. "Pardon?" she blinked, acutely conscious that King Horik had turned and was now looking at her.

"You asked your mother for forgiveness back at the church," Ragnar elaborated, pushing off the mast and walking towards her. "She said 'no'. Why? Was it because she knew you were going to try and kill us?"

Marion smiled and shook her head. "No, that she would have forgiven me for."

"She would not forgive you for failing?" he frowned, propping himself against the side of the boat opposite King Horik.

"She would not forgive me for getting myself killed," she explained.

Ragnar frowned again. "You would have died a good death." He moved his hand in her direction. "You would have died for your family."

Marion smiled lightly again. "Mother Superior would say that such a decision is not mine to make."

"You believe that your life is fated?" Ragnar's voice intensified.

"No," she shook her head. "The Lord gave his children the choice of free will."

Floki's voice floated from the end of the boar, his tone holding a hint of mischief and she watched Ragnar turn to look at him. King Horik then spoke, a bite to his tone, and Ragnar turned again, his eyes flicking over to his brother before to the king. His answer, unintelligible to her, was calm but what she thought was a slight tinge of condescension in his tone. Marion tensed a little but King Horik merely snorted, replying only with a derisive phrase.

"What is that word that you keep saying?" she asked after there was silence for several moments, tentatively trying it out.

"Priestess," Ragnar translated for her.

"I am not a priestess!" she said indignantly.

"Are you not a holy woman?" asked Ragnar.

"No," Marion was aghast. "Although I try to be as holy as I can. I am a _nun_, a Sister, a bride of Christ."

"A bride of Christ?" he repeated. "You are married to your God?"

Marion nodded, her thumb automatically going to where the copper ring encircled her finger. It had not always sat comfortably on her finger, physically or figuratively, but she had long since accepted its place and she found some comfort in its presence.

"What does he look like, your God?" he asked curiously.

She blinked and looked up at him. "I have never seen Him," she replied.

"Well what does he _feel _like?" he asked, leaning in slightly.

Marion stared at him blankly.

"When he comes to you at night?" he continued.

Comprehension came in a blinding flash of mortification and Marion blushed, ducking her head and crossing herself. _Mother Mary_ she thought _protect me from these savages_.

"Does he not come to you?" Ragnar frowned slightly as he took in her reaction. "He goes to one of his other wives?"

"It's not like that," Marion burst out. "We do not ….sleep," she didn't want to use any other word, "with our God."

"You sleep with the priests then?" he asked.

"No," she shook her head, her face flaming red.

"You sleep with the monks then?" he pressed.

"No!" she exclaimed. "We don't do _that_," she continued before he came up with an even more scandalous suggestion. "We give a vow of chastity."

"Chastity," he repeated the word. "I do not know this word."

_Mother Mary_ Marion closed her eyes briefly. "It means that we vow not to marry or to engage in …_acts_ with a man."

"Never?" he blinked.

"Never," she confirmed.

"Hmm," he tipped his head slightly to the side. "The priests – they make this same vow?"

Marion nodded.

"The monks too?" he persisted.

Again she nodded. "Hmm," a slight smile crossed his lips, obviously engaged in some internal thought.

Again Horik spoke and this time Marion recognised the word 'Christ' in Ragnar's translation. Horik turned to look at her and asked a question.

"King Horik wants to know what it is that you do for your God," said Ragnar.

"I devote myself to Him and His people," she replied. "I read His works and strive to understand them so I can be a better Christian; I spread his Word by what I say and by what I do."

"And what is it that you _do_?" he pressed and again waved his hand in a small circle. "Tell me about your day."

"My day?" she blinked, surprised. _It wasn't that exciting_. "After Lauds I go outside…"

"Lauds?" interrupted Ragnar.

"A religious observance," she replied. "Prayers and hymns." At his nod she continued. "I take the goats out into the fields to graze, for an hour and then bring them back in for milking. Bertram and I clean out the stables and feed the animals, then I go in for Prime – another observance," she noted as his eyebrows rose. "The other sisters and I break our fast and Mother Superior addresses us, then we attend to some chores around the convent, cleaning and such. We attend Terce and then I head down to the village to trade some goods for some fish and attend any villagers that need assistance before returning to Sext. There are more chores, or perhaps some more villagers to attend to, some quiet study, and then we celebrate None. Then it is time to take the goats back outside for some grazing, muck out the stalls and feed again before having our evening meal together before Vespers. After Vespers there are some chores to finish from the day or to prepare for the next day and we ready ourselves for bed. We celebrate Compline; I have a last check of the animals and then retire for the evening. We wake again to celebrate Matins at midnight and then return to bed until Lauds before dawn. (1)"

"That is a lot of prayer," Ragnar observed and she smiled slightly _she wouldn't tell him about the feasts of the saints in which she wouldn't rise off her knees between Prime and None _as he provided a translation for the rest of the crew. He looked at her for a few moments and then pushed off the edge of the boat and returned to his position at the mast, looking forward.

The silence returned to the boat, the only noises the rasps of the oars against the side of the boat, the splashes as the blades hit the water and the occasional words spoken between the men. The tongue was like nothing she had heard before and Marion was not able to recognise any of the words. She sighed and closed her eyes, running through the Terce prayers and hymns from the memory of a thousand mornings.

It was the change of motion that roused her and she looked up to see the Vikings pulling in the oars. Horik, noticing her, gestured to his side and she stood, her muscles only slightly protesting after the long period of inactivity _it was nothing on a night of penance_ and stepped beside him.

The beach was closer than she had thought possible and there were other boats, sleek low lying forms similar to the one she was on, anchored in a staggered fashion, their sails furled in tight bundles at the top of their masts. There was a shout from the shore and then another and another; several figures appeared on the top of the crest, pausing for a moment before starting down towards the shore with other figures appearing and following behind them.

Horik raised his hand, giving a shout and one of the figures lifted his own hand in response. Horik turned a smile to her, speaking a short phrase.

"He's telling you that is his son, Erlendur," said a soft voice above her shoulder and she started, looking up at him briefly. She turned back to the shore to examine the Prince, the ship's anchor splashing into the water and pulling the ship to a stop with a jerk. He was a slender young man, fresh faced with tousled hair and a winning smile. _Popular with the young ladies_ she thought with an internal smile. _But not_ her thoughts continued as her eyes travelled to the figure next to him, _nearly as popular as him_. The second figure might not have been significantly older than Erlendur, he might even have been younger, but he looked much more of a man with his almost rakish haircut and smattering of hair on his face. His figure was much fuller as well, with broad shoulders and developed muscles. Even at this distance his eyes were piercing and even before he spoke, she knew who this was.

"My son, Bjorn." There was no doubting the pride in Ragnar's voice.

Some of the smile in Horik's face hardened and he spoke another short phrase in a harsh tone. Ragnar's response was light but Marion thought she heard an edge to his tone and tensed slightly – feeling very small between the two Vikings. But Horik merely snorted.

The Viking men leapt over the edge of the boat smoothly and Marion felt a twinge of envy as Lagertha did the same. Her own disembarkation was far less graceful and Horik had to almost carry her through the waist (for her) deep water, the heavy fabric of her habit dragging at her strength reserves.

There was a crowd awaiting them as they made solid ground (Marion offered a short prayer of thanks), Ragnar standing with his son and several of the crew to one side, Floki stood to the other side with the remainder of the crew and a ghost of a smile on his lips and in his eyes.

Horik's first words made her jump, a ringing announcement – of victory she thought based on the rest of the Vikings' response. _Great victory_ she thought bitterly _over fishermen and nuns_. Horik's speech continued and this time she recognised the word Christian – she supposed they had no actual word in their native tongue. She was grasped by the arm and pushed forward, Horik's words identifying her as a 'priestess'. _Mother Mary_ she thought as the Vikings in front of her roared again, something akin to fanaticism in some of their faces. One of them called a question; Horik's answer was somewhat amused and with a sudden jerk Marion felt her veil and wimple dragged off her head. It had been a couple of weeks since she had cut her hair and there was a raucous burst of laughter as the Vikings beheld the spiky fuzz over her skull. Marion snatched at the fabric but it was whisked out of her reach. She made another attempt and Horik simply lifted it above his head – even without her hands tied she wouldn't haven't been able to reach it and rather than accord the Vikings more amusement, she submitted, lowering her head and blinking back tears. Horik threw the fabric into the water behind him and said something else. His tone confused her slightly and she looked up; a pair of hands took her habit's neckline and ripped. She screamed and reached for the edges, but a second rip shredded the seam and her habit fell from her shoulders, pooling around her lower legs and bound wrists and exposing her simple shift to the Vikings' gaze.

"Please no," she begged to Horik.

His tone was cold as he said something to her and then reached out and shoved her. She stumbled backwards and would have fallen but then there were hands on her shoulders and arms stopping her fall. Horik's lip curled and he turned away – and then there were hands in other places where they had no right to be. "No!" she screamed at the men. ""Holy Father – protect me," she called out as there was another rending tear of her clothes.

There was no answer to her prayer, nor to any of her other prayers during the remainder of the day and the night.

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(1) My source was Wikipedia and I will quite happily accept that there may be errors associated with my incorporation into this time.


	3. Chapter 3

Oh my golly gosh – I am so so so sooooooo sorry that I have kept you waiting for so long. Real life can be so inconvenient. Thank you to all who have reviewed and who are following the fic. I really will try to devote some more actual writing time to this (as opposed to random day dreaming).

Conversation 3 

_Blood. Blood everywhere._

"Is he going to live?"

Gudmund looked up at him, his face stern and his eyes stark, and then turned his attention back to the gaping hole in Rollo's chest. "He is badly injured," he muttered, cutting away the blood soaked fabric.

Bjorn grimaced – that much was obvious. Rollo had always been an idol of his younger self; a magnificent specimen of masculinity whose skills with weapons was only matched by his ferocity in battle. Always a handsome man he had never struggled for feminine company, although the almost casually contemptuous manner in which he treated most of them had not sat well with even a young Bjorn. Now though his uncle's face was pale, his eyes were clenched shut and his teeth were gritted against the pain. The portion of his chest which Gudmund had bared and was currently busy stuffing lint into was covered in blood and there was evidence of additional wounds on his chest and on his legs.

"What do you need?" asked Bjorn.

"Fire," replied Gudmund. "Heat me a knife." Bjorn nodded – he had seen it done before. Fire, and his mother's prayers to Freya, had saved his father.

"No," moaned Rollo and Bjorn stopped, looking down at him. His eyes were still closed. "No fire."

"I have to sear the wound shut," insisted Gudmund.

"No," Rollo's voice remained strained but carried more emphasis. "The bag," he swallowed. "Look in the bag."

Bjorn frowned and looked down the pallet his uncle was lying on. There was a small leather pouch tucked under the blanket that was covering his lower torso and Bjorn reached for it, fumbling with the neatly tied cord for several moments before he got it open, tipping the contents onto his uncle's belly. A number of small sheafs of vegetation, held together with thin strips of leather, tumbled out, a strange concoction of scent following the movement.

"Herbs," said Bjorn. "Medicine!"

Gudmund reached over and picked up a sheaf, bringing it to his nose and smelling it. He frowned and carefully extended his tongue to part of the plant. His face contorted and he turned to the side, spitting multiple times. He threw the sheaf back onto Rollo and curled his lip. "Poison," he snarled.

Bjorn looked at his uncle – he was clean and his hair was groomed. His clothes, while they may never have actually left his body, had obviously had the worst of blood, mud and gore rinsed from them. _Someone had cared for him, _had in fact gone to a lot of effort and judging by the remnants of stitches, had actually tried to heal him and Bjorn wondered whether it may have been Athelstan. He knew that Rollo had never understood Ragnar's appreciation of the monk, had perhaps even resented it and had often made snide comments – for a long time Bjorn had thought the absence of a response by Athelstan to be an indication of weakness. As he had grown however he had come to understand that not all of a man's strength resided in his sword arm and that one glimpse of Athelstan, clad in his monk's robes, without a weapon and yet entirely serene between the Vikings and English soldiers had struck him powerfully. "It is not poison," he said firmly.

Gudmund's look plainly indicated that he was humouring him only. "If I do not know how to use it, even the best of medicines is poison."

"My lord Bjorn?" the shieldmaiden's voice was a little hesitant but she met his gaze clearly. "The priestess – she may know."

Gudmund snorted but Bjorn ignored him. "What makes you think that?"

The shieldmaiden shrugged. "Two days ago everything I passed was water – she showed me what plant to find, how to crush it and soak it in boiling water and then mix with another plant before drinking it. I have been fine since."

Bjorn hesitated – the priestess was Horik's slave and Bjorn had no right to her. _But Horik and Ragnar are allies – and Horik must know how important Rollo is to Ragnar_. Rollo gave a sigh and subsided into unconsciousness and Bjorn made up his mind. "Do not burn him until I return," he waited the moment to receive Gudmund's grudging nod before turning to run through the camp knowing that Gudmund would only wait long enough to get someone more senior to give him alternative instruction before the blade would come back out.

The tent that he approached was guarded by one of Horik's men, a greasy looking individual that Bjorn had not had much interaction with. His eyes marked the younger Viking's approach and stepped in front of the tent flap as Bjorn would have pushed through. Bjorn straightened, looking down on the other man. "I need to take the priestess."

"Says who?" snarled the man, his grip tightening on his axe. "You're not one of the king's men."

"No," Bjorn smiled, deliberately misunderstanding the Viking's words. "I am the son of Earl Ragnar," he stretched out his father's name. "_And_ of Earl Ingstad." He paused for a moment. "I am Bjorn Ironside."

The Viking twitched. "What you want with her?"

"That does not concern you," replied Bjorn loftily. "It is enough that I want her. Get out of the way."

The Viking hesitated, his eyes flicking over the younger man's figure and how his hand caressed his axe and his own hand clenched. He looked around as if to look for support, but the only ones within eyesight were Earls' warriors. He stepped aside.

Bjorn smiled slightly and stepped forward, keeping his eye on the man and his fingers on his axe until he was inside the tent.

The interior of the tent was almost dark to his eyes and he blinked to bring sight back to them, his nostrils flaring slightly from the musty smell inside. There was a slight noise to his side and he turned; his eyes caught the movement in the air and he reefed up his axe, blocking the attempted blow and twisting. There was a slight yelp and then a rattle and clunk as first the piece of timber and then the wielder hit the ground.

Bjorn straightened, looking at the woman. She huddled on the ground, the under-dress that he had last seen in now filthy with dirt and what was likely blood and in barely mended tatters around her small frame. Someone had given her a haircut and her scalp was entirely bald, marked in numerous places where the knife hadn't been wielded carefully enough. She shivered and he caught some of her whispered words _she was praying_.

"Your God is nothing," had spat Horik. "Now it is me that you will serve," and he had pushed her amongst his men. Bjorn had tensed as she had screamed, but Ragnar had put his hand on his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze before turning away, Torstein at his side. Bjorn had looked to his mother and her eyes had been full of pain, but her face had been tense and she had given a slight shake of her head before she too had also turned away. _Some battles could not be fought_ he had understood her but he had hesitated. Porunn (1) was also a slave, there were some who would consider a lesser person, someone who didn't have rights even to her own body. Briefly he wondered if she had ever been in that position before he chased the thought away. Porunn belonged to his step-mother and whatever Aslaug's faults, and for some time Bjorn had not thought much of her, he knew that she would condone the rape of one of her slaves. Neither, he knew, would his father – he had spent far too long with Lagertha to think that a man had any rights over a woman's body that she did not freely invite him to partake in. This woman though, she had no such protection, she was a Christian and King Horik had just made her free to anyone who desired her. Horik himself, along with Erlendur, had walked away, Floki and some of the other warriors headed in the same direction. "Are you coming uncle?" Bjorn had asked, his uncle still standing near the edge of the water, watching the mass of warriors around the priestess. Rollo had looked up at his nephew and offered a brief smile. "Of course," he had replied and walked up the hill, only looking once more.

_She should be broken_ he thought and glanced at the branch that she had tried to hit him with. _The gods would always protect strong women_ he remembered and smiled slightly. He stepped back from her and lowered his frame onto his haunches.

"Priestess," he said in a gentle tone. "I need your help."

Her head raised slowly, her eyes wide at the first words that she could recognise since she had come off the road. Those same eyes ran over his figure, taking in his demeanour and some of the fear seemed to dissipate – although he noted with some amusement that her eyes also flicked to the piece of timber. "How?" she asked suspiciously.

Bjorn grimaced slightly, Gyda had been the one who had wanted to learn Athelstan's language and he had had to pretend that he wasn't interested in learning the words. "You heal?" he said.

_Not what she was expecting to hear_ he thought as he saw her face change. She sat up carefully, keeping her dress tight around her ankles. "You're hurt?" she prompted, her eyes again searching across his frame.

He shook his head, "not me," he had no word for uncle,"….other."

"How?" she repeated.

Bjorn grabbed his knife and she flinched; he held up his free hand and pointed the knife into his chest. She nodded and he stood up, sheathing his knife and then carefully taking a step towards her and held out his hand. She looked at it and then at him. "Please," he said.

She swallowed and her eyes closed briefly. "Mother Mary," she whispered and then opened her eyes, reaching out her hand to take his. She staggered slightly as he pulled her to her feet and he reached his other hand around her waist to steady her. She flinched a little and stepped back, smiling to indicate that she was alright. Bjorn took a glance at her and then looked around, in two strides he stripped the blanket from the bed and then returned to throw it over her shoulders. She looked up at him with some surprise. "Thankyou," she murmured.

"You're welcome," he replied and for that mastery of the language he got a smile.

The Viking on the outside opened his mouth as Bjorn led her out, but one look from him was enough to prevent any words coming out. The priestess paused a moment, grimacing and blinking a little in the bright sunlight for a moment before responding to the gentle pressure from Bjorn's hand and walking forward. She shrunk a bit closer to him as a group of Vikings came towards them, but they were Ragnar's men and while they looked curiously at Bjorn, they made no move to stop him.

"This is the man," he said as he came to his uncle's pallet, Gudmund looking on with disapproval.

She stepped forward, her eyes focussed on the wounds. She picked up the herbs, smelling one and rubbing her fingers on another before touching her fingers to her tongue. She nodded, "good." She placed the herbs to the side, and leaned in, reaching with both hands to pull apart Rollo's shirt. The blanket dropped off her shoulders with the movement but she paid it no attention, although Gudmund's eyes immediately dipped. Bjorn made a slight noise in his throat and stepped half a step closer, and Gudmund's eyes dipped back to Rollo's chest.

"The stitches have been broken in transport," she was saying in a tone of dissatisfaction, and pulled the blanket from the bottom half of Rollo's body. She moved down, paying no attention to the shieldmaiden that has to step aside, and put her nose to a wound in Rollo's leg. She scrunched it slightly and again pulled at the cloth. "This one starts to fester," she commented – to herself he was sure, recognising the signs of a master at his craft She moved back up to Rollo's chest, pulling his shirt entirely away from his side where there was a long gash. She touched the bloody fluid weeping from it and then tested it between her fingers, another noise of dissatisfaction coming from her throat. She moved to the side again, this time it was Bjorn who had to move from her way, and placed a hand on Rollo's forehead, turning to look at him for the first time.

Bjorn heard her gasp and then she banged into him as she almost threw herself backwards. She recoiled off him, turning and looking up at him with wide, horrified eyes. "No, no, no, no," she whispered, shaking her head and backing away from him. And he knew.

"Bjorn Ironside," King Horik's voice made both of them start, Marion stumbling as she whirled around. One of Horik's men reached out and grabbed at her – Bjorn say her rebel against the touch but then still, lifting her chin to glare back at Horik's almost sneering face as he glanced at her before it lifted up to him. Bjorn towered over the King and he didn't think it was co-incidence that Horik stopped some distance away to lessen the effect. "By what right do you accost my man and take away my slave?"

_Accost? _Bjorn's brows lifted slightly.

"Yes Bjorn Ironside," repeated a much softer, and slightly mocking, tone behind him. He saw the woman start and turn to look with wary eyes. "By what right do you take King Horik's slave?"

Horik's face darkened momentarily at Ragnar's truncation of the issue but smoothed it away, saying nothing.

"Your pardon King Horik," replied Bjorn respectfully. "My uncle is in need of medical attention."

Horik's gaze turned to Rollo's chest and the gaze that was turned back to him held some regret. "Let Gudmund tend to him then."

Bjorn didn't like the tone of acceptance in his king's voice and he spoke with a bit of bite. "Gudmund wishes to burn him."

"Fire cleanses the wound," stated Gudmund.

"My uncle did not wish to be burnt," replied Bjorn.

There was almost pity in Gudmund's gaze. "Fire is painful," he started.

Bjorn didn't even realise that he had stiffened until he saw the woman's eyes widen in fear and Gudmund's words came to a stop.

"You are not implying that my brother is fearful of the process?" interjected Ragnar in silky tones that sapped some of the colour from Gudmund's face. There was a slight rustle amongst the warriors as more arrived to see what the fuss was about; Bjorn felt a presence move in beside his father and knew that it was his mother. Divided they may now be but for him they would always be as one.

"Rollo is a brave warrior," stated Horik firmly, taking back control of the conversation. "Valhalla is calling him."

Bjorn looked down at the pale, drawn features of his uncle and shook his head. His uncle should enter Valhalla the same way he had lived his life: loud, brash, full of himself and with the blood of his enemies still warm on his skin, not just as this hollow shadow. "His family calls him as well," he said aloud.

Horik looked at him in consideration, his eyes flicking to his parents behind him before meeting his gaze. "And you think the Christian woman can help him?" said Horik.

The word referring to her elicited a slight twitch and Bjorn stepped forward as he reached to pick up the herbs. "English medicine," he said. "These are foreign to Gudmund – but not to those who have treated my uncle. And not to the Priestess," he pointed to her with the sheaves.

"What could it hurt King Horik?" asked a mocking voice to the side and Bjorn looked to see Floki's mischievous grin. "Rollo is after all a Christian himself."

Bjorn's brows contracted in confusion and he heard his father let out a hiss of annoyance. Horik swung around with a questioning look at the tall Viking.

"Did Ragnar not tell you?" Floki continued in a teasing voice. "Rollo abandoned the gods on one of our earlier raids."

"My uncle would never abandon the gods," refuted Bjorn indignantly and wondered if he imagined a flicker of regret under Floki's sneering grin.

"It was merely a ruse," continued Ragnar, his tone hard. "To give the English king comfort in his negotiations."

"Rollo has always honoured the gods," stated Horik, again as if pronouncing a finding in court. Floki shrugged, taking a swallow from his drinking horn and looking entirely unconcerned and a trifle amused. "And I think we should continue to honour their way – but," he paused _for effect_ wondered Bjorn. "If Bjorn Ironside wishes to trust to Christian priestess then I have no objection."

Feeling like he had been handed the blade of a double edged sword, Bjorn inclined his head in thanks. Horik stood expectantly and Bjorn turned to look at his father; he was met with wide blue eyes and a slight smirk – a clear _it's your party_ and turned back to the priestess. "Priestess," he started.

A grimace of distaste came across her face as she turned to him. "Do not call me that!... Master Bjorn."

He smiled slightly at the obvious after thought. _"_Sister Marion," he corrected carefully. "Can you help him?"

"Why should I?" she asked and his brows rose. She cast another glance at Rollo. "What incentive is there for me to do anything?"

Bjorn didn't recognise the word but he thought he understood the basis of what she was asking.

"Can you grant me my freedom?" she continued.

There was no reason to tell the truth: truth would not aid his cause and no-one would think any less of him for manipulating a slave into doing what he wanted. But again the thought of Porunn came to his mind and he dismissed the thought. _This woman deserved more than that_. "No I cannot," he said gravely. "I have no….. power," the word wasn't right he didn't think but he hoped she would understand.

"What does she say?" asked Horik.

Bjorn hesitated but while his father stayed close, he also stayed silent. _This was his battle_. "She asks me why she should help." He could almost feel Ragnar's slight smile of approval at his selective translation.

Horik's face darkened and he stepped forward, glaring at the priestess. The woman backed up a little, until she was pressed hard against the Viking behind her. She lifted her chin, gritting her teeth in determination. Horik reached out a hand and took her by the throat: for a few moments she held still as he squeezed and then lifted her hands to grasp at his wrist. She had no effect and Horik was inexorable, squeezing and pressing until he was forced to her knees, her face becoming slightly red. Bjorn ground his teeth, swaying forward just as Horik tossed the woman to the side.

The priestess drew in a gasping breath, coughing and gasping some more. She pushed herself to her hands and knees and then, slowly to her feet, wrapping her arms around her middle and shivering slightly.

"She will tend to your uncle Bjorn Ironside," announced Horik in contempt. "Else I will cut her open and feed her still living flesh to the ravens."

Bjorn bit his lip. "My thanks King Horik," he said respectfully, reaching over to grasp the woman's arm, firmly but gently, and pulling her closer to him. He reached down to the ground and retrieved the blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders again.

Horik nodded. "I will make a sacrifice to Odin for your uncle," he said and turned away with another nod that encompassed Bjorn as well as his parents. The rest of the crowd also turned away and Bjorn turned to his parents, receiving a wink from his father and a slight shake of his mother's head.

"I need fire to heat water," said the priestess, her hands already bloody as she began prodding into the wounds to better examine them – the blanket once more on the ground. Ragnar clapped Bjorn softly on the back and turned to supplement the closest fire ready for the task. "You," she looked at Floki. "I need three – buckets – salt water," she supplemented her words with gestures with her hands and pointing at the ocean.

Floki spat to the side and walked off. Bjorn stared after him in confusion. He just didn't understand the boat builder – he had always been a touch…. _abstract_ but this trip he seemed to be almost affronted by anything that was done.

"Tell your priestess I will get her sea water," Torstein's genial voice distracted him from his thoughts and he turned to see his father's friend pick up a pail from under a tent and head towards the ocean.

"Don't get any sand in it," the priestess called after him and frowned as he just gave a backwards wave. "It is important that there is no sand in it," she said to Bjorn earnestly. "That will prevent the wound from healing."

"I will tell him," said Lagertha and turned to follow the warrior, grabbing another pail as she went.

"Master Bjorn," she caught his attention. "I need you to crush a finger full of this," she held up her finger against the herb, "cut a joint full of this and mix them into a paste with some of the boiling water." She waited until he nodded in understanding and handed him the herbs. He watched for another moment as she took the third herb and pulled off the shoots, rubbing them between her fingers and then leaning forward to rub it against the inside of Rollo's lips. She looked around. "Now please Master Bjorn – time is important."

He knew that while she wouldn't have understood Horik's words, she would have understood his meaning. _She was a brave woman this one_. "I will protect you," he tried to sound convincing because he knew that he might not be able to, "even if he dies."

She turned to him, her eyes questioning. What she read in his face he didn't know, but she laid a blood stained hand against his forearm. "I do not do this because of your king Master Bjorn. I have watched my sisters being murdered, been stolen from my home, been violated multiple times and degraded into some type of animal. Do you really think I am _afraid_ of death?" her voice chided at him gently, like a mother to a child. "I will try to save this man because my Lord God gave me a gift to use and a thirst for knowledge – not because of any threats that are made to me. If He so wills this man to live, then that will be enough and if not – then I will gladly face His judgement having given my all."

Bjorn nodded. "Thank you Sister," he pressed her hand between his.

She snorted. "Thank me if he lives," she said and stepped back towards Rollo.

Bjorn nodded, smiling to himself as he walked to where Ragnar now had the fire going. His uncle would live – of that he was sure. Odin wouldn't argue with this woman.

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I like Bjorn – I think he has more moral fibre than his father. And much more than his uncle.

(1) I am spelling Porunn's name like this because while I understand the 'P' is not really a 'P' and not pronounced that way, History Channel's website has used that spelling.


	4. Chapter 4

It occurred to me during this and the next chapter that there isn't really much actual stuff happening – is there? I do have a couple of action chapters in mind, but the majority of this fic will remain introspective. I suppose if you have made it this far that is working for you. Thankyou for those people taking time to send me a review and for those people following – I hope you continue to enjoy it.

Conversation 4

Ragnar smiled to himself. The night's noises had died down – Horik's warriors were either dead, too injured to fight or under guard. He had triumphed. Now he was King. His sons would be King. _And yet was it enough?_ wondered part of him. _No_ answered another part. If he was honest, nothing would ever be enough because there would always be another direction to sail, another land to discover. And there would always be another enemy. Men – women even – who resented his ambition, who wanted to stay in the world that they had been born in, who thought he should be content to be master of what he could see rather than risk finding something greater.

He felt a squeeze on his leg and smiled at Aslaug, holding Ivar in one arm with Ubbe and Hvitserk standing a little apprehensively on the other side of her. She was a perfect queen; her elegance, her poise, her grace, her beauty – all fitting for the queen of his domain. He would need her knowledge of diplomacy as he negotiated his way through the Earls and their allegiance. _And yet_ his eyes flicked around to his where his ex-wife stood at the front of the crowd of warriors. She could be a fitting queen: she too had elegance, grace and beauty. She was a certain cunningness to her form of diplomacy, able to use words to avoid most battles should she desire – but where words failed she was not then at a loss; she was a warrior – she rejoiced in the battle, the clash of swords and shields, the rush of almost losing one's life and the taking of others. Both women had borne him fine sons – _how could he choose between them?_

There was a movement in his peripheral vision and he turned to watch the crowd part to let his eldest son come through – without a conscious thought the edges of Ragnar's mouth tipped up. Bjorn was a son a man could be proud of. Not only was he a magnificent specimen of masculinity, he was a fearsome warrior and yet still had gentleness about him, an ability to empathise that gave people confidence in their leader. _You will hate him for it_, Floki's words came back to him and for a moment his smile dropped. _No, _he regained his control. He was King and next summer he would have a bigger army to take raiding. He would make the name Ragnar Lothbrok feared throughout all lands and remembered through the centuries. His sons would build upon the foundations of his work, but they would never eclipse it.

He stood, staying just slightly taller than his son due to the height of the dais and reached out his hands. Bjorn dipped his head and extended the King's sword in both hands towards him. Ragnar took it with both hands, admiring its elegant construction, and Bjorn backed away.

"Hail King Ragnar," called Lagertha, extending an arm.

Ragnar pointed the sword to the roof and lifted it high.

"Hail King Ragnar," responded the Norse behind and around her, dropping to their knees, the noise echoing off the roof and walls. "Hail!" Ragnar turned to Aslaug and his boys with a raised brow and she smiled back at him, rocking Ivar gently. Slightly disappointed at the lack of awe she showed towards the occasion, Ragnar turned back to the crowd to drink in the adoration but the sight in front of him made him frown slightly.

Three people stood: Lagertha, well he knew that she would never kneel to a man, especially not him; Bjorn, as his son and heir he wasn't required to kneel (plus he was too much like Lagertha's son); and a third, a small woman in a slave's dress, her head covered with a dirty cloth standing close to Bjorn's elbow. She was looking to the floor but as he glanced in her direction she looked up and he had a glimpse of wide brown eyes before she dropped her gaze again.

Ragnar held up his hand for quiet and turned to his son. "Where are the rest of Horik's slaves?"

"I told them to go," Bjorn lifted his chin slightly.

A muscle in Ragnar's cheek jerked as he clenched his jaw. While he would gladly bury Horik with a bent sword for what he had tried to do he knew that to so out rightly disrespect the man would stir up animosity in people that he hadn't even met. _And Gunhilde deserved a warrior's funeral._ That called for slaves for sacrifice – something Bjorn should have, _must have,_ known. Bjorn held still, gazing directly and without any apparent fear.

"Why not this one?" Ragnar asked, his eyes taking the measure of his son and approving despite himself.

"I told her to go too," shrugged Bjorn. "She asked me 'where' and I had no answer."

Ragnar frowned and stood up, the King's sword held across his body in two hands as he advanced towards the pair. Bjorn stood firm, but his hand moved slightly to catch at the woman's elbow and she lifted her head, her eyes widening as she saw Ragnar approach and for a moment she seemed to shrink into herself. He smiled slightly and there was a flash in her eyes – she straightened and her chin came forward. Bjorn looked over at her in surprise.

"I know you," murmured Ragnar, walking around behind her and looking her up and down. "You are the little priestess we brought back from Wessex," he changed language for her benefit as he came back to the front of her.

"I am not a priestess," she said sullenly.

"Sister Marion!" announced Ragnar, pleased with himself for remembering her name. He changed his grip on the sword and reached out one hand, tipping her face away from him to take in the fresh marks evident around her eye. He glanced up at his son and received a shake of his head in response. "How did you get these?"

"A philosophical difference regarding the articles of war," she said icily.

"A philosophical difference regarding the articles of war?" he repeated in grand tones, releasing her and taking a step backwards. "What does that mean?"

"It means I did not agree with the murder of children," she said loudly. "Your man hit me."

There was a slight murmur amongst those watching at her defiant tone and Ragnar gave them a quick glance to quell them. Her courage, while maybe only a thin shell, impressed him. He looked her over closer again, noting the bruises from older blows on her face, around her neck and on her arms. "You liked serving Horik?"

"He was a swine," Marion replied contemptuously. "His wife was no better."

"So why would you protect his family?" asked Ragnar, genuinely curious.

"Because those children were innocent," she answered. "They did not deserve to die."

"If I had not killed them – they may have later become my enemies," reasoned Ragnar.

"There may be a certain kind of cold logic to that," she told him coldly. "Except Erlendur is alive."

"As a slave," shrugged Ragnar, amused by her distain. "He has no teeth anymore and his life is forfeit the moment he shows himself to be false to me." He looked at her for a few moments. "Horik was going to have my family killed – my sons, my wife, my brother. He deserved to know that his family was dead before he died. It was Odin's will and he will forgive me."

She snorted but said nothing more although her eyes dripped contempt.

"Would your God forgive me?" Ragnar tipped his head, his eyes piercing at her.

"If there was a crime my Lord would not forgive it would be the murder of innocents," she replied. She was silent for a moment and then continued in a grudging tone. "However if the repentance was genuine….. I am not God though."

Ragnar put his head back and laughed. "I like this one," he said in Norse with a grin. "But what am I to do with her?"

"Sacrifice her for Horik," suggested Floki and there was another murmur among the gathered Norse.

Ragnar turned to face his friend, seeing hatred within his eyes. It had been difficult for Floki to play the betrayer; when Floki gave his loyalty he gave it for life and even fake betrayal had gone against the grain of his being. He felt guilt about things he had said and had done, even if no blame was appointed to him. There had been physical danger as well – he had run the risk of being killed by a suspicious Horik or by Torstein or Rollo or even Bjorn before they had been let into the plan. It had taken a toll on him, although not one that he would admit, and Ragnar knew that this was where the suggestion was born. It had merit though – for everyone outside of this room the sacrifice would be proper, only the people in this room, _his people_ would know that he was in fact giving Horik the greatest insult by sacrificing a Christian.

He turned his gaze to find Athelstan, dressed as a Norseman with blood specks still on his face and saw the wish for mercy within his eyes. He knew what it was like to be torn from his home and thrust into a world which was foreign in every manner and he was smart enough to know that the woman had found a less kind master in Horik than he had in Ragnar. While he may accept the Viking within him, while he would fight, he would kill, at heart he would always keep some of the gentle monk.

Then there was Bjorn. Horik hadn't been kind to the woman after she had treated Rollo and had made a point of ensuring that Bjorn knew about it. Ragnar had heard her screams fade into whimpers and seen each one of them lance through his son like a blade. At one stage Bjorn had actually stood and Ragnar had thought that all of his plans were about to be lost, because he would not have denied his son his right to redress the slight on his honour, but Lagertha had placed her hand on his arm and after a few tense moments he had walked with her towards the ocean where sound didn't register over the crash of the waves. Torstein had the set up a game amongst Lagertha's and Ragnar's warriors and the sounds had first been lost amongst the rowdiness and then stopped all together. As Ragnar looked at his son's face now he saw that Bjorn would accept his decision, but knew that he would lose a part of his son forever should he make the wrong one.

_No_ he decided. "We will give Horik the respect that a King deserves," he said out loud and some of the stiffness went out of Bjorn. Ragnar turned Floki. "The gods will see him for what he is," he said reassuringly and Floki nodded.

He turned back to the woman, considering his choices. She faced him squarely, outwardly defiant but with fear at the back of her eyes. He could marry her off; there would be some who would enjoy breaking a defiant wife, cracking that resolute shell until she was quivering in fear at his feet. And yet he was not inclined to do that – this woman had strength to endure what she had and she deserved more than that. He could release her; Bjorn had already offered her that though and she had rejected it, figuring that with what she wore, in the absence of any knowledge of the language and no other supplies she would soon run afoul of someone or die from exposure – this woman had a calculated intelligence. He could kill her; it may be a blessing to her, a release from all the torment that she had suffered – and yet when he looked in her eyes he saw life and a will to live.

_She would remain as a slave_ he decided. _But whose?_ She could stay here – she had knowledge, she spoke with slightly different intonation than Athelstan, she lived in a different part of the country, she could heal with English plants and sea water – perhaps he could learn more from her. That could be dangerous though, she was known to be Horik's slave and questions would be asked about why she wasn't sacrificed with him. That also ruled out Torstein – who probably wouldn't know more than one thing to do with a slave anyway, his household moved to whichever Norsewoman was offering him her bed. She could go with Lagertha back to Hedeby, Lagertha would treat her well and would perhaps make a shieldmaiden out of her. That might take her knowledge out of reach for him though.

"Floki – you take her."

The carpenter looked across; his startled eyes framed by the bleeding makeup to what would be a comical level if one was not aware of the steel in his bones. "_I_ am not the one who likes her – if you like her so much _you_ keep her."

"I have plenty of servants Floki," Ragnar waved his hand around the hall. "You and Helga have none."

"We do not need one Ragnar," said Floki earnestly with a glance at Marion.

"Floki," broke in Aslaug. "Winter is coming and you have been from home all summer – Helga has your baby to care for. She could use the assistance."

"She tried to kill me," Floki protested.

"The horse tried to kill you," corrected Ragnar with a grin. He wondered if that was his objection or whether it was because the woman was a Christian. Was he afraid of her God?

"You will need her Floki," said Aslaug firmly. The words had a ring to them and Ragnar turned to look at his wife; she blinked and gave him a serene smile and he wondered if it had been her whom had spoken or whether it had been the gods.

"I do not want her Ragnar," Floki shook his head.

"Then I give her to Helga," decided Ragnar and Aslaug gave a small nod. "She has been a loyal wife, tending to your home while you were away, birthing your daughter in your absence. This is my reward to her." He smiled as Floki's pout.

"Do I have a say in my future?"

Ragnar turned back to look down at the nun. _She was perceptive this one._ "No," he said simply.

She swallowed and her tone changed a little. "May I at least know what it is?"

"You will go with Floki," her face paled somewhat, "and you will assist his wife in her duties."

"Please, no," she said in a broken tone. She closed her eyes, her lips moving soundlessly for a few moments. "Kill me."

Bjorn looked around at her in shock and Ragnar's brows raised. "You are not afraid of death?"

"Death is but a doorway to eternal life with the angels and saints in the company of the Lord God" she replied somewhat dully. "I have no fear of death except that I may not have proven myself worthy of eternity in this life."

"And yet you still want death?" persisted Ragnar.

She snorted in derision. "I don't _want_ death – I want to go home, I want to go back in time before you arrived and live my boring little life until I was old and grey. But I cannot. And death would be preferable to … _that_."

Bjorn's agonised eyes met Ragnar's and suddenly he realised how his earlier words could have been misconstrued. "Your duties will be to help Floki's wife with the house, with gathering food and firewood, helping care for her daughter," he explained and her head lifted. "That is all."

"No…..?" she couldn't say the words but her face made her point.

Ragnar turned around to glance at Floki, still looking in distaste at the woman he had to take home with him. Even if Helga had not captured Floki's entire being, Ragnar would not have thought that Floki would ever force himself on a woman, and certainly not a Christian one. He turned to face her again. "No," he replied simply.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she blinked them away hurriedly. "Thankyou," she said softly in Norse. Ragnar's brows rose. "Little," she continued in Norse. "The children were teaching me," she switched back to English to explain.

"Helga will teach you more," nodded Ragnar. "And you can teach Floki English."

Floki's eyes narrowed as the nun looked around Ragnar towards him hesitantly. "I will try," she said doubtfully.

Ragnar gave his son a small nod and Bjorn gave her elbow a slight squeeze so that she looked up at him. "Come," he said and turned away.

"Goodbye Lord Ragnar," she said and turned with Bjorn, walking two steps before pausing to look over her shoulder. "God bless."

Ragnar grinned and held aloft the sword. The hall responded with a yell that made her flinch.

He had indeed been blessed – though whether by her God or the Norse gods he wasn't sure.

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